


Psalm 133

by Brigdh



Category: Boondock Saints (1999)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Twincest, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Too cold to sleep and nothing else to do," as Connor said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psalm 133

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gentlezombie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/gifts).



> A Yuletide treat for gentlezombie! Thanks for having an incredibly inspiring prompt. I had a great time writing this, and I hope you enjoy it.

It started- well. Hard to say, really. A thing like that, between the McManus brothers- didn't really start so much as it was always there. Just changed a bit, like. Things'll do that, over time.

They'd always shared a room, after all. Shared a bed, sometimes, growing up. Shared the womb, even. The more you thought about it, the more natural it seemed. Least, that's what Murph tells himself, when he considers it from the outside.

But the hell of the matter is, between him and Connor there is no outside. Never has been. As natural to take Connor's cock in hand as to take his own, and he started doing the one around the same time as the other.

Not that they're the same person, or whatever hippy bullshit he sometimes hears about twins. Connor's far more excitable than Murph, for one thing, and for another he takes things more to heart. His face is fuller and his hair fairer than Murph's, and he's got a fucking annoying habit of drinking the last of the beer. But he's Connor. It'd be a bit like getting pissed at your own right hand. It is what it is, and it's always going to be there.

Back when it started- or didn't start, or whatever the hell- they were just horny teenage boys, fucking ecstatic to discover what a cock could do. Connor's always known Murph's secrets, and this knowledge wasn't something he wanted to keep to himself all that much anyway. Turned out, bleeding unsurprising, sex is better shared. Most things are better shared with Connor.

And that's how it is. 'Course, a lot of fucking things have changed, but Connor's still here. Even if now he's got a smoker's cough in the morning as bad as Murph's own, and they've both got more scars than they reckoned on acquiring when they were thirteen and planning out the future. Didn't fucking include Boston in those daydreams, for one. They'd been fond of places with a bit more of an exotic ring to them, places like Vladivostok and New York City and Cape Town. Even if Murph'd bothered to give a thought to Boston in those days, he wouldn't have imagined it was so fucking cold. Boston cold was its own bloody brand of cold, the sort that found its way inside even the heaviest coat. The sort of cold that made Murph never want to go outside, except he was half-sure it was colder inside their flat than out.

Still, there was something nice about those nights. "Too cold to sleep and nothing else to do," as Connor said.

This night, they're starting slow, kissing with Murph half on top of Connor, Connor's arm slung over his shoulders with the elbow tight against the back of his neck, holding him close. Their hips're moving against each other, nothing hurried yet, just nice and easy. They're both just a bit drunk and just a bit tired- mass early this morning, a Holy Day of Obligation, though one of the ones most people forget about.

Murph turns his head, runs his mouth down the side of Connor's neck. In the dark, he has to guess at where his brother's tattoo is, tries to trace it from memory with lips and tongue. Connor's fingers are in his hair, rubbing at his scalp. His hands are on Connor's sides, stroking up and down. He drags a palm over the knife-ridge of Connor's hipbone, slips on down to the thigh and digs his fingers in. He can taste his brother in his mouth, salt and skin and something just him. Murph scrapes teeth down Connor's neck, comes to the muscle where neck and shoulder meet, and bites down.

"Jesus," Connor swears, but it's just for show; Murph can hear it in his voice and feels him arch his back. Connor's fingers tighten in Murph's hair and he drags Murph up for a kiss. Murph shifts obligingly, moves a leg to Connor's other side so he's straddling Connor's hips, a bloody brilliant place to be, in Murph's opinion.

Connor bites Murph's bottom lip. "Gotta be fair."

"Aye," Murphy says between kisses. "Is that how you want it?"

Connor tries to roll them over, the long line of his body pressing up against Murph's, but he doesn't have enough leverage in this position. Murph leans on his shoulder to keep him down. "You started it, laddy," Connor says. He bites Murph's finger, which had strayed too close to his face.

Murphy yanks his hand free and covers Connor's mouth with it. "You don't want me to be thinking 'teeth' where I'm going," he whispers. Connor's eyes widen above the hand. Murph kisses his cheek, short and hard, and lets go of his face. He moves down Connor's body, taking his time about it just because he can, touching each tattoo and tendon and scar he passes on his way. Connor's harder and larger than Murphy, his muscles fuller, but Murphy thinks he probably knows Connor's body better than his own. Doesn't spend much time licking his own chest, after all.

Connor's cock is hard already and getting harder. Murph touches it lightly, being a bit of a tease but Connor doesn't mind; Murph hears his breath start to dance out of rhythm. He likes to touch Connor here, likes the feel of soft skin over a hardness within. Bit queer, that, he supposes, but shrugs it off. He hasn't ever gone to confession for what he and Connor do together. Probably a sin of more than one sort, but Murphy figures God understands. And if He doesn't, well, that's just something they'll have to sort out eventually. But the priest ain't going make no difference, and Murphy never did like to talk about Connor to others.

Better to talk to Connor. Better not to talk at all, at that, just feel. Murph and Connor have never needed that many words between them. Ain't nothing between them now, just Connor's cock in Murph's mouth, Connor's hips jerking just a bit, and Connor's hand clenching, almost painful, on Murph's shoulder. Connor's cursing a blue streak, and it takes a sudden uptick in volume and vulgarity when Murph pulls away, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Ah, hold your bloody horses," Murph says. He fumbles under the mattress, looking for that tube of the slippery stuff they discovered a few years ago. He scrapes a finger against the concrete floor and pauses a moment for a curse himself; Connor kicks him in the ribs.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Murph, having located the damn tube, thumps him with it.

"It's not bloody right to get a man's cock wet and then abandon him, you bastard," Connor says.

"You fucking impatient fucking bastard, why don't you just fuck yourself then, if you're in such a fucking hurry," Murph says, but he still holds out his hand for Connor, who has caught the tube and flicked it open, to squeeze some onto his fingers. "Besides, what's this abandonment nonsense? I ain't fucking gone nowhere, idiot."

In response, Connor kicks Murph's shoulder under the pretense of setting his foot up there.

Murph, considering that someone's going to have to be the bigger man if there's to be any fucking tonight, just slides his fingers into Connor, and is rewarded when he hears Connor's breath stop, not starting again until Murph twists his wrist in just the right way.

It's tempting to make Connor beg for it, just to show the bastard what impatience looks like, but it's just a bit difficult to take his time when he's as hard as he is. Murph can feel his pulse pounding in his cock, like a drumbeat telling him he should be fucking something right now. Both of them are impatient bastards, really. They've gotten more bruises from bickering with each other than they've ever gotten from any stranger. And then there are the bruises from doing this. When Connor fucks Murph, he usually wakes to strings of bruises on his hips: Connor's fingerprints. Looking at them in the washed-out light of morning makes Murph hard again, and he has to wrestle Connor back to bed for a quick round before work. Feels the same way when he looks at the bruises on Connor. Can't always remember where they all came from, but that don't matter; they can always make some more.

Murph pushes into Connor, fucking finally, and it's so goddamn tight he can't do anything but hold still, his cock overwhelmed and fucking throbbing with pleasure.

Connor hisses, "Move-"

"Gimme a minute here-"

-but Connor fucking _rolls_ his body up and Murphy nearly swallows his tongue. He gets it together enough to thrust, and shoves hard into Connor. "Jesus, mate, are you trying to bloody kill me?"

Connor doesn't answer. His head's fallen back, so Murph's got a great view of the clean line of his jaw, a bit rough with stubble just now. Connor's adam's apple is bouncing and his hands are fisted in the sheet like he might fall off if he doesn't hold on. Murph leans forward, hearing Connor make a noise that's probably best described as a bloody growl, and grabs one of those hands, turning it over and lacing their fingers together.

It's so fucking good, this is. Connor's body's just a bit slick with sweat, and he's got his head jammed so fucking far back that his chest is lifting off the mattress, and Murph can smell sex in the air around them so thick he can practically taste it. It's not like this with anyone else. Murph tried that, and then confessed it, because it's a sin too, and not one so personal. No one else knows him like Connor does, is all. No one else could. Connor's the one who's been at Murph's side since the day they both were fucking born. Since before that, even. Connor is the only one who knows every language Murph does, and not a one more; Connor was there that week in Bangkok, and Murph still isn't sure how they didn't end up in a Thai jail; Connor was there on the Russian fishing boat when Murph got a scratch infected and thought he was going to die on that stinking, rotting floating coffin; Connor was there when they stowed away to London and saw a real city for the first time. If it happened to Murph, Connor was fucking there.

Now Connor's gasping for air, his legs clenched around Murph. Murph's got a hand around Connor's cock, rubbing it, his own cock deep inside Connor. Making a circle, like. Connor's body's bloody perfect, and Murph knows it like the back of his own hand. Might as well be his own hand, close as they are. Feels like that sometimes, like there's nothing in the whole world but him and Connor and how fucking good it is. Feels like that now. Connor's twitching in his hand and tightening around him, and then he comes, grunting. Murph follows; they're always in tune.

He collapses across Connor, doing nothing except catching his breath, not even thinking. After a minute Connor dumps him off, twisting to the side and reaching off the bed. "Get me one," Murph says without opening his eyes.

He hears the flick of the lighter, a long pull of breath, and then Connor's tapping him on the cheek with the filter end of a lit cigarette, the other still in his mouth. Murph takes his and rolls over for his own long drag. They blow the smoke above them, nearly invisible in the darkness.

Murph tucks an arm behind his head, hears Connor settling in beside him. The cherries of their cigarettes give off just enough light that he can see the reflection of Connor's eyes.

"Fucking good," Connor says.

"Fucking great, you mean."

Connor laughs, low in his throat, and pulls on his cigarette. After a long moment, he says, "Getting cold again."

"Fucking Boston," Murph agrees.


End file.
